


Did You Hear the One About the Barber

by WaldosAkimbo



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale was going to take Crowley on a date and then the antichrist came in, Crowley is mentioned in passing, the barbershop, where does he get the cologne
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-07-08 21:25:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19876312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaldosAkimbo/pseuds/WaldosAkimbo
Summary: Aziraphale has a barber and not only does he have a barber, he has a barber that recommends him cologne and not only that, he changed his cologne at some point!This is that point!





	Did You Hear the One About the Barber

**Author's Note:**

> I'm going off some of the cosmetolgy stuff I know in America, so I might have everything bassackwards and oh well *shrug-emoji*

The barber shop across the way was just opening for the day.

The hours of business to this particular establishment had more rhyme and reason to them than a certain fabled bookstore, but there was a time when Mr. Princely was the owner and he had a bit of flair—and a tongue for exquisite whiskey—that kept the doors closed longer in the morning, opened later in the evening, and generally inviting during the stormiest weather for any gentleman—or lady, nobody was particular and everyone needs haircuts, as Mr. Princely said—in need of a shave, half-formed conversation, and backwards philosophy. He had been an absolute favorite around the block with the well off and the less fortunate and his passing in ’89 was celebrated with black crepe, pint glasses that never ran empty, and old, old friends pressed in together under the rain. The oldest of them, indeed, sat pink-cheeked next to a lithe companion in the traditional black attire necessary for a good wake. Nobody commented on his general creamy affair, how he seemed both ancient in spirit and young in face, how he couldn’t have known Mr. Princely for long and perhaps his father had been a frequent patron and couldn’t make the trip out for the service. They left him to commiserate and celebrate and inebriate himself as he was very well liked by both Mr. Princely and friends and he did seem miserable at the loss of the poor barber.

It was a lovely place. Going out of fashion, which sometimes put it right back into fashion for that very fact. The windows were dark with gold lettering painted outside to advertise, with a traditional striped pole poking out of the awning above the door. The interior was larger than necessary. Impressively intricate moldings for the trim, wooden floors that creaked with the lightest of steps, big mottled mirrors lining a wall. There were leather chairs to sit to wait with old newspapers on older tables and big metal chairs to sit at when it was your time to get a haircut. There were cramped displays for pomades, colognes, shaving cream, shampoos and conditioners. A separate room to wash and dry and provide exquisite scalp massages. Hot towels, combs in bottles of swirling blue, traditional shaving with a fine single-blade razor or something more modern. The gentle _snip-snip_ from delicate silver scissors. A billiard table. A bar with a rotating collection of beers and wines and, yes, and whiskey. Smoking was allowed in the lounge, even if for a long time it was strictly cigars and fancy cigarettes, but modern advancements finally broke through to let a man smoke a cheap cigarette or, Heaven forbid, a _vape_. It was fine and warm and quiet and beautiful.

Ravi thought it was a _bit much_.

 _Not_ that he’d share his opinion with his employers, of course. He was still getting along with his license and he couldn’t look at a scalp without Bingham saying _something_ about this or that. He was pretty sure he could do a fade better than Jacob “I’ve Been Here Fifteen Years, Look at Me, I’m A Git” Bingham, but, again, not one to share his opinions.

It was a decent gig. The people were all old stodgy types and half of them even tipped the poor bastard sweeping hair. Ravi was grateful for that. Manners were a thing that were sort’ve highly expected here, more so than the last little modern pop-up place he’d tried to get on at. And, sure, they didn’t have as many customers as it saw in its heyday, fine, but nobody ever worried about the doors closing or a payment missing for that month’s lease. They said the place was blessed for a long, long, _long_ time and he had faith in their faith, as it were, to stick it out.

With the shop just opening and no customers yet, Ravi was sweeping, getting a head start on the cleaning for the day. His loaner loafers out of his father’s closet were creaking nearly as much as the floorboards. He’d been there six months and was finally finding the natural music of the place, half-expecting that spot there to creak and that spot over there to moan and that place to give a little squeak as he came by first with a broom and then with a mop. They had some classic tune playing on the radio. It all had those whimsical sort’ve lyrics, the sound of black and white, the silver age that dinged with brassy instruments and syrupy beats. Couldn’t hear a word of the chorus if he wanted to, but he thought the sound was nice enough.

The music and the floorboards were just enough of a distraction that he nearly didn’t hear the front door open, the bell chiming hello. He was enjoying the almost wave-like sounds of the dry bristle brushes sweeping across the floor before he realized there was a presence nearby. Ravi didn’t startle easily, generally, and by the pale colors and heavily worn outfit of the man beside him, he didn’t think he was really being threatened. He didn’t notice, say, the lack of footsteps or maybe mothball-heavy smell one would imagine would accompany this man.

“Hello,” the man said before Ravi could open his mouth. “I’m terribly sorry, do you know if you have any availability this morning. I’m in a bit of a rush, you see, things to be done and all that. There’s going to be a showing…well, alright, not the full itinerary, mind you. And there’s dreadful things happening with it in the back, you see, and I know it’s not my usual time, but I can’t quite figure it out why it’s even doing such a thing…. I mean, Crowley keeps making fun of me for it, too, which is entirely unfair when you get a sight of what he’s doing with _his_ these days; you’d think he went and cut it himself!”

Ravi’s smile grew a little more bewildered and softer as this stranger talked at him.

“Stranger” was an unfair term. Mr. Fell had frequented the shop after his father and grandfather and perhaps a few more relatives down the line until the first day the shop opened, as far as the stories go. Ravi wasn’t usually scheduled when Mr. Fell came in for his bi-monthly trim. Gossip was as much part of the trade as trimming and the barbers liked to talk over drinks at the end of the day while he was sweeping.

 _Marvelous tipper_ , they said. _Worth it to be scheduled when he comes in_ , they said. _Do get him started on crêpes_ , they said, because he had opinions and suggestions that took up the entirety of the appointment and if they didn’t start that conversation then he generally started to bitch about his friend, whom they all secretly assumed was either a bitter rival or a long lover of his. Couldn’t be certain which.

It was by some accidental mishap that Ravi was even there on that particular day for the morning shift. The fellow who swept in the morning had gotten sick the night before. Whether that was true or not didn’t matter, because he had called up Ravi in a fit. They _needed_ him and, if he was honest, he needed the hours yet, so….

Mr. Fell was still talking. Ravi blinked quickly and looked around, but the other barbers were out. John had come in for a time and decided he needed breakfast. He checked the schedule and disappeared across the street. Bingham wasn’t in until tonight. Stone and Casper would be by lunch time. Ravi had just opened up and didn’t expect anyone in until nearly noon. He swallowed and nodded, trying to find a good point to break into Mr. Fell’s ramblings. He was gripping the broom handle extra tight, listening for one of his bosses to step around the corner any minute.

“…and I didn’t let myself get bristles this time, you see, because the last time that happened, Crowley wouldn’t stop touching it, so I think all I need then is—”

 _Come on_. _He’s a good tipper, everyone says!_

There was nobody around….

“Right this way,” Ravi said with a little bow, pushing the broom away from him lest Mr. Fell finally put it together that he was just a sweeper at best.

Mr. Fell looked at him with such earnest happiness, he thought he had just agreed to house him for the winter and help him take care of three children and a cat.

“Oh, oh thank you.”

“Right.” Ravi nodded, smiled, beamed, even, to match Mr. Fell’s surprisingly earnest disposition. “Of course. Yeah. Yes! Right this way, Mr. Fell!”

Mr. Fell melted again, the full body sort’ve sag of relief when something goes your way.

“Thank you, dear. You can call me Ezra.”

Ravi set the broom aside and quickly wiped his hands down his front, getting caught on the ribbon of his apron. The charcoal apron wasn’t exactly regulations uniform or anything. He just thought it was easier to wear it and take it off at the end of the day in hopes some of the hairs didn’t get stuck to him and he’d be dying of itchiness until he got home to shower.

The thing of it is, everyone had their stations, namely from renting it out from the shop owner, as these things go. Ravi had been going through cosmetology and he kept a set up with clippers and comb and scissors and everything in a little black bag for when they thought he could get in a few hours for his full certification. He kept his items right at Bingham’s station, the second one to the left with the gold specks haloing their reflections in the antique mirror. There was no guarantee, with such a light workload in their scheduling books, that he’d get a chance to practice today, so this might very well be his only shot.

After the overcoat was removed and hung up on a brassy hook on the wall by Bingham’s station, Mr. Fell—Ezra—tugged on the bottom of his not-quite-threadbare-but-threatening-to-get-close waistcoat and dragged his fingertips through his hair. He sat and shook his shoulders as Ravi got out his supplies. It was a pair of cheap scissors, plastic comb, and that bargain clipper. He suddenly felt a sick, a sprite put up to bat in a proper professional game. Fanning out the tarp across Ezra’s chest and tying the little strip of gossamer cloth around his neck helped Ravi settle down enough so he wouldn’t nick the client or himself when it came to start cutting.

Ezra closed his eyes and sighed as Ravi started petting through his hair. God, it was _magically_ soft. Curled around his fingertips, bouncing as wool, running like silk. No grease, no dandruff, not a speck or fleck or filament out of place. He couldn’t help but continue to pet him, staring openly before his brain ticked over and he remembered he was supposed to be doing a job.

“Right. What’ve we got today?”

Seemed Mr. Fell enjoyed the attention too. He uncoiled further, which seemed downright impossible, sinking back.

“Just a trim,” Ezra answered happily. “Off my ears, if you could, and I think it’s getting a bit shaggy there in the back.”

It wasn’t. Not by any means Ravi could see or feel. It seemed like the whole thing was shored up tight. He could swear Ezra had recently had a fresh cut. No split ends or damage or anything.

“You’re…sure?” Ravi asked reluctantly. “No offense, sir, it looks pretty good back here.” He winced as he said the words; he was going to lose out on a sale and practice time right off the bat for his honesty. So _stupid_!

Ezra made a considerate hum and sat up, touching the back of his hair. He looked at himself in the mirror, then at Ravi, watching him. Ravi felt like _he_ might need to melt into the floor for making Mr. Fell feel awkward and only relaxed after Ezra sat back.

“Are you sure?” he asked softly, pouting a little. “Could you check again?”

Strange request, but not the worst thing in the world. Ravi tapped his cheap plastic comb to his thigh and brushed through Ezra’s hair again. He must be tired, because it was a little scraggly at the nape, drooping over his ears enough to be shaggy but not disheveled. Ravi touched his comb to it, working it backwards, already seeing exactly where he needed to trim it to.

“Yeah. Yes,” he overcorrected, nodding again. “Yes, of course. Right. Let’s get you ship-shape, sir.”

“Ezra, dear,” Mr. Fell said again. It was formal but informal and Ravi watched him a moment before he grinned.

“Sorry. Right.”

“It’s quite alright…?”

The pause lingered between them before Ravi understood what he was asking.

“Oh! Ravi! I’m, uh…yeah. Ravi.”

“D’you know, I haven’t seen you before. Are you new?”

“No,” Ravi answered just as he spritzed Ezra’s fine white hair. He combed it again, pressing it between two fingers, and the blades of his scissors hovered a moment as he realized he was just going to get away with this and nobody was going to say anything and surely he’d ruin this poor nice man’s hair but he wouldn’t because Ravi was actually good at this and _OH GOD_. Ravi cleared his throat. “No, I mean…I work evenings. Sweeping.”

“Just our luck we’ve finally managed to run into each other!” Ezra said happily, sitting still enough, though his face was quite animated. “Sweeping, you said?”

Ravi’s stomach turned again. Here it is. He’s going to be called out. Stupid, stupid, _stupid_ man!

“Congratulations, then, on getting to the chair,” Ezra said, relaxing again under Ravi’s touch.

Ravi blinked. He blinked and blinked. He blinked, smiled, feeling oddly warm, calm, peaceful, and began to trim Mr. Fell’s hair.

It was easy work. It was _beautiful_ work. Ravi’s scissors snipped and glided with an ease he didn’t think they could possess. He found himself biting his tongue between his lips as he worked across Ezra’s head, swaying to the old timey music like a sleepy waltz. Ezra seemed delighted too, but he kept opening and closing his mouth like he was waiting for something.

 _Crêpes,_ Ravi remembered. Except Ravi wasn’t that big a fan of crêpes. Surely there was something more interesting to talk about?

“So, um,” Ravi started, feeling spectacularly dumb when he did. He mentally stumbled to latch onto anything Ezra had started saying when he first materialized next to him. “You don’t like Crowley’s haircut?”

Ezra looked like he was brought back to life. The way his skin glowed, the way his eyes lit up, the way his fingers twiddled on the heavy iron handles of the barber seat cushioned with red satin and foam.

“It’s _atrocious_ ,” Ezra said in a way that was doused in barely suppressed jealousy. “It’s _gorgeous_ when he lets it down, you know, because he has these beautiful curls that come naturally, but he keeps sheering it all off and spiking it all up with this goop and I do wish he would just leave it alone for a moment, the poor man.”

Ravi chuckled, flicking away a little clip of hair.

“Not to sound insensitive, but you know you have natural curls too?”

Ezra laughed to himself.

“Yes, well. You should have seen it in ’93 when I was in Paris,” he answered.

“D’you know, I still haven’t managed to get over there. Was it nice?”

“Not a good time when I went,” Ezra admitted, his brilliant blue eyes flicking up to Ravi’s face again. “But it’s changed quite a bit since then.”

“Yeah? Couldn’t take my sister, though,” Ravi said. He felt Ezra’s question without him voicing it, so he paused long enough to circle his face while still clutching his comb. “They’ve got that hijab ban, you know and….” Ravi saw Ezra reluctantly wilt. Oddly enough, it hurt. “I mean…no, I bet it’s really nice and all. I just—”

“No, you’re quite alright.” Ezra sighed and looked like he meant to pat Ravi’s hand but, thankfully, stopped himself. “Crowley would say something about how ‘you _humans_ know how to get yourselves into all sorts of trouble.’”

What an odd way to put that. Ravi laughed, crinkling his eyebrows together.

“I suppose we do,” he said, friendly enough. Ezra mirrored his expression and then smoothed himself out again, amused by Ravi’s amusement, it seemed. “Your Crowley not human, or…?”

Ezra appeared to blush, and Ravi got that strange lovely warm feeling through himself again, like the whole shop was filling up with it, bubbling up in the comfort of love.

“He’s devious,” Ezra said without any heat or malice to it. “And he’s not exactly _my_ Crowley. Though….”

“And you two have a date tonight, then?”

“Well,” Ezra said and floundered to find the next word to his thought. “I mean.” His mouth opened and closed again in that way he had, not distracting, just sorta chewing out his emotions without saying them aloud. “I mean.” And he slightly wiggled his shoulders again, keeping his head remarkably still all the same. “Yes. Yes, I think it is.”

That sounded downright like hope.

Ravi, he discovered, secretly hoped with him.

“I think sushi,” Ezra said.

“Hmm?”

“Oh. I just. I think sushi would be good. Then take him to the…. Um. Never mind.”

The last little snip finished above Ezra’s right ear. Ravi flattened it all down with his hands, stepped back, and waited for Ezra to appraise the work in the mirror. He sat forward, tilting his cheek left, then right, then sat back again.

“It’s perfect,” he answered. It very well could _not_ be perfect, but, in that moment, Ravi agreed with him. It was a very nice little haircut.

Ravi stepped away to go grab a hot towel. He swept any clippings off Ezra with a soft-bristle brush, dabbed him with a small amount of alcohol, and covered him with the hot towel, pressing his skin down. He dusted his fingers across Ezra’s hair once more for the sheer simple pleasure of getting to touch it, pretending it was because he was making certain it was styled just right.

“Did you want any products?” he asked automatically.

“No, no,” Ezra answered. He had closed his eyes again, apparently enjoying himself, but perked up at the last minute. “I’m almost out of my cologne. Do you have any recommendations?”

Ravi could definitely go to the log in the back and see what Bingham sold Mr. Fell—and Mr. Fell’s father and grandfather and so forth and so on to that very first sale that would miraculously always be in stock—but he liked being in the man’s presence and, honestly, truly, Bingham was a prat. He was probably selling him some douchey _eau de toilette du pomerac parfum_ or whatever.

“Actually….”

Ravi squeezed the back of Ezra’s neck one last time, then took the towel with him as he went to their shelves of products. He eyes ticked across the labels quickly until he spotted a little unassuming bottle with a slightly smoky amber color to it. He grabbed it, sniffing across the spritzer, even if it was sealed up. It still flashed in memories of his father in the tiny bathroom of their first apartment in London, his hair slicked back and shiny with pomade, his beard trimmed perfectly so. He spritzed his neck from a half-empty bottle he only got out on special occasions, and grinned when he spotted little Ravi studying him from the hallway. His father had beckoned Ravi closer and let him smell the spray on his wrist, then dabbed it on Ravi’s skin, reminding him that it was special because it made the women they love love them even more, like a special potion. His parents wouldn’t go out anywhere fancy that evening. Mother had cooked for the whole family and there were no plans but to eat, to laugh, to go to bed early for another grueling day of work the next day. But, on those special nights, they might put on records and dance in the cramped living room, his mother’s smile bright and as warm as sunlight. She would tuck her face against his father’s neck and kiss his cheek and they’d tell each other they loved each other. He truly believed it was a magic potion then. Always.

Ravi was grinning at the simple memories as he carried the bottle back to Ezra.

“Um, it’s nothing too fancy,” he admitted, knowing now, as an adult, it was along their cheaper brands, even if it had been a luxury to his father back then. “And I can go and see if we have….”

Ezra had already reached for it, their hands touching for the briefest of moments. He couldn’t possibly know why Ravi had picked this fragrance at all, but there was something in his eye that suggested he very well did.

“It’s perfect,” Ezra said.

“You can open it up and give it a try first, sir, if you—”

“Ravi?” Ezra stood and was already fetching his coat, swimming around in the pockets for a moment to apparently get out his wallet. “It’s perfect. Much appreciated.” He turned and handed over an amount of money to pay for the haircut, the cologne and the tip that would honestly make anyone blush. “Maybe next time I’ll even let my beard grow out a little, hmm? Wouldn’t that be funny.”

“ _Thank you_ ,” Ravi whispered, trying to find any decorum in the moment. He cleared his throat and looked up as Ezra was silently making his way to the exit. “And I hope you have fun on your date tonight!”  
  
Ezra—Mr. Fell—waved his fist and the little bottle of cologne, before he disappeared back out into the street, the bell chiming as the door closed. That only left Ravi in the shop, some little line about _angels dining_ or something or other playing in the music overhead. He took out the proper amount for the cologne to put in the till, pocketed the rest, and grabbed up his broom before anyone from the shop came back to say so much as “good morning, Ravi. Been good?”

It had.

**Author's Note:**

> '93 is absolutely 1793 and not 1993, but how in the hell would Ravi know that? He wouldn't!
> 
> Anyways, a cute little barbershop just needed to be born today. Thanks for reading!


End file.
